28 jul / Gaza
I wake up, robbed off my dreams and pleasant slumber, gazing at a ceiling that I don’t remember being dark as it is now.
If I close my eyes I see the images I watched on my giant TV some days ago. So I keep them wide open. Yet the visions of my eye lids climb into the room anyway.
Soldiers dancing in a circle, laughing, playing like little children, soldiers ready to shoot a gun, kill off somebody’s else’s daughter, steal the life of what might as well have been its own nation’s son.
Soldiers innocent in their little games of impatience, killing of the time, waiting for some real battle action, dreaming of cloud nine.
I feel my muscles squeezing, my lunges screaming for fresh air, but I can’t stand up just yet. I have to see a bit more of the things hidden in the dark, the nightmares that are taking over full day light in homes and places so alien to our heads, yet so close to our hearts.
We ignore, because it’s easier to forget than it is to forgive. But I’m no longer able to forgive nor forget, the souls of the innocent deaths have found me and haunt me when I walk the streets, prepare food in the kitchen or lay in my bed. Their eternal rest has become my personal restlessness.
I know I won’t be able to feel normal again, until I have admitted the state of abnormality surrounding me, controlling me, blindfolding me.
In the corner of my room sounds the little voice of a newly born, crying for its mother. Doctors have saved it from the cold womb of its life-giver, another one’s stolen daughter, killed in an explosion. The baby cries, yet nobody’s says a word. The loud explosions of bombs and rockets have turned mankind not only deaf but also blind.
They talk about human shields. All I know is that in this life we are all human shields. Carrying around our heavy armor, hiding our face behind an iron mask, closing in instead of opening up, letting down instead of standing up.
I know I should turn to the corner of my darkest nightmare, pick up the baby, that little motherless child. But I doze off, rather slowly fall asleep, in a world screaming from despair, on a planet that no longer even has the tears to weep.
Thousand forty have died so far, the latest seven children running around on a refugee playing ground, multiply this grief with the deaths of forty three dancing soldiers and three civilians of the other side, and the sum is total loss. Never total surrender.
Humanity might surrender to apathy, but men can’t surrender to peace. Humanity might sleep another night, without even the slightest concern over those that will never wake up to see the light. But I won’t know how to dream again.